


Luna Plena Maledictionem

by Naoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bartender Sam, Cursed Dean, Cursed Sam, Grad Student Dean, M/M, Not Pack, Possessive Dean Winchester, Professor Castiel, Stalking, Werewolf Dean Winchester, not a/b/o
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4563051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naoe/pseuds/Naoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Castiel King has moved to Rock Hill, SC, to get away from the big city and his ex-wife. On his first day of class, he meets Dean Winchester, distractedly charismatic man, who has taken a rather <em>insistent</em> interest in Castiel.</p><p>But Dean has a secret, and, one foggy night, Castiel discovers that fairy tales aren't always in books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luna Plena Maledictionem

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on [ an image I found on Tumblr](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/3d/5d/c5/3d5dc58592928a8cfa7b80025381d756.jpg), where someone had added "Only true love can cure a werewolf." It turned into a plot bunny, and kept hitting me in the head, so here are the results, which I've been sitting on for like 5 months. 
> 
> I also wanted to write a werewolf story that wasn't LIKE the other werewolf stories, because I like doing that. I'm contentious that way.
> 
> The title looks fancy, but just means, "Full Moon Curse." (If it's wrong, hit me up, because my Latin is hella weak.)
> 
> I should add a big THANK YOU to [ShipperList](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList) because she beta'd and then pushed me to post. Check out her work; she's tops! ;)
> 
> OH -- and all the <3 <3 to [littleboopoo](http://littleboopoo.tumblr.com) for the gorgeous piece of work. She's amazing! Check her out her work too!!

 

> Skin crawling at the sight of the moon  
>  Blood frozen by the reading of runes  
>  Paranoia starts to eat at your brain  
>  Unholy curse to drive you into the grave...
> 
> [Orange Goblin: Bishop's Moon](https://youtu.be/dmkyTMYAC2w)

* * *

It was late July when Dr. Castiel King, Ph.D., moved to Rock Hill, SC. He had moved to take a professor’s position at Winthrop University, and to make a new start. After his divorce, he had just wanted to get away from the big city life in Chicago, and, although Rock Hill was only half an hour away from Charlotte, NC, it was still, in its own rights, a small town.

He needed a small town, somewhere comfortable and less overwhelming than Chicago or New York, where he had also been offered a position. But he had tired of the constant hustling and competition in the departments. He didn’t want to fight for tenure; he just wanted to do his job and enjoy it.

Which he did, most of the time. Psychology was such a broad and interesting field, and he honestly loved it. He loved teaching it to students who also loved it. It was extremely enjoyable.

There was, of course, that percentage of students who didn’t care for it, and it was a challenge to try and get them interested. It was a pleasure when he succeeded, but he knew it wasn’t for everyone.

Besides, he had been studying and teaching psychology for almost 10 years now, and he still hadn’t been able to figure out his ex-wife.

Aside from the lack of cut-throat competition, Castiel also enjoyed the size of the campus. It was so small compared to UCLA, his undergraduate, MIT, or even from Cornell, where he got doctorate. Sure, Ithaca was small, but the campus was not.

Some of the buildings on the Winthrop campus were small and old, a few of them even creaking with age that he found he enjoyed. It gave it personality that newer buildings lacked. His office, in particular, looked like it had not been redecorated or painted since the 1950s, all dark woods and faded blue paint. But here, at least, he was granted a window that overlooked the green. His time in the academic trenches made him appreciate the small things, and an office, not a cell in the basement, was something to be cherished.

As he sipped his coffee, he prepped for the day. His classes for Thursday mornings were simple enough: two freshmen Intro to Psychology courses and a sophomore/junior Adult Developmental Psych. They were his more tedious classes because most of the students didn’t want to be there, and, for some reason, advisors tended to stick freshmen in Intro to Psych classes to get them acclimated to college life. More than one instructor complained about that fact, but no one had an answer since, really, freshmen did _need_ the courses. Hopefully one or two of them would be enticed to major in it, was Castiel’s train of thought.

His Thursday afternoons were more challenging. He was also, currently, teaching two graduate courses that met once a week: one in Behavioral Psychology, which was his focus, and one in History of Psychology, which he just enjoyed.

Most of the time, he could relax in these classes, since graduate students tended to have questions and lead most of the discussions.

Most of the time.

It was in his Behavioral Psychology class, however, that he consistently found himself a bit nervous.

It wasn’t the topic; he was well-versed in the ways of Behavioral Psych, having interned and eventually gotten his PhD in the topic. Cornell was excellent for his interests. He had even spent a few years in the tropics, traveling to as many places as possible to observe how various tribes enforced behaviors. He was one of very few who had taken that route of direct observation in remote tribes, and had even gone out into Africa’s jungles, and then visited several small islands where natives had minimal to no contact with modern society. His book had been an academic success, if nothing else.

No, it wasn't the topic.

It was one of his students. One ‘Dean Winchester,’ to be exact.

It was an interesting phenomenon, and, if it wasn’t happening to himself, he would have liked to have observed and document it.

The man made him nervous for no perceivable reason.

Dean Winchester presented himself as a minor mystery to Castiel. He was undoubtedly arrogant, but he never quite showed off. He was good looking and knew it, but he didn’t actually abuse his looks to get favors. He flirted with his fellow classmates, but he didn’t touch them at all.

It was all contrary behavior and Castiel couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

On the first day of class, Dean Winchester had strolled into class without looking up. He had sat down about one minute after the class had officially started, and he had done it all with the air of a man in complete control of himself.

Castiel, who was in general indifferent to people’s appearances (which may or may not have been a bone of contention with his ex-wife), had actually paused for a second when Dean had pushed open the door to the classroom. The faintest hint of leather and pine scent had followed him in, almost like a trail. That was what had caused Castiel to pause for a moment, because it was distracting, more so than the large, good-looking man who had tried — and epically failed — to sneak into the room.

The distraction that had been Mr. Winchester’s entrance had been amplified by the fact he had gotten most of the women’s attention and not a few of the men’s. Their eyes had been glued to him, and not paying attention to what Castiel had been saying about the class and the syllabus.

As for Dean Winchester, he had simply sat in his seat and smirked vaguely at the attention, winking at his captive audience and slouching. His attire had been a dark brown leather jacket; a tight, pine green Henley; and some well-worn dark jeans with dark brown boots. Aside from the fact the man was (quite frankly) beautiful, with even features, pump pink lips, and a straight nose, he hadn’t said a word to earn the attention. Except, of course, he was practically the golden ratio come to life, and it was startling. Even worse, his eyes were a particular green with gold halos that seemed to glow from the back of the room where he sat.

Ignoring the scent and the glowing green eyes, Castiel had powered through the syllabus and taking questions, and had decided to get the ice breaker over with. There had been a feeling of tension that rode the room, as if everyone had been waiting to find out who the hot guy in the leather jacket was.

Castiel had started the ice breaker, giving his age (35), favorite authors (Agatha Christie, Phillip K. Dick, & Raymond Carver), and his interests in Behavioral Psych. He deliberately had pointed to the end of the room opposite the eye of swirling speculation, and they had been (unsurprisingly) brief with their introductions.

It had been as if, without trying, the green-eyed man had taken control of the room and all the people in it. For some reason, it had irritated Castiel and he internally had fought the compulsion to act against it. It was ridiculous. Downright puerile.

It had been during his brief introduction session that Mr. Winchester said he was an Aquarius, he liked frisky women, and sunset walks on the beach.  The women had tittered, and Castiel had smiled and said, "I'm not sure Astrology qualifies as an actual science."

Dean had grinned, all bright white teeth and unusually sharp canines, and replied, "It works with the ladies and that's all that matters."

Castiel had let it go, amused that the women in the room were indeed about to fall over themselves to get next to the man, and responded with a rare grin that made the green-eyed man narrow in on him. He had ignored the sharp look and had started in on the required books.

After that exchange, at every class period, Dean always just sat in the back of the room, those eyes focused on each and every move Castiel made. He felt that gaze like heavy fingers brushing over him: it touched the back of his neck, brushed over his hands, and grazed over his jaw and lips. He felt the gaze through his clothes, in the small of his back and at his waist. It made Castiel shiver, and feel like he was prey.

It was uncomfortable.

But how do you tell an otherwise excellent student to stop staring?

Dean was well read; he understood Behaviorism on a level that Castiel had seen few people do. He was really _was_ extremely handsome and he was aware of it, aware of his almost animal magnetism that had the people flocking to him. He seemed to almost view it as another limb, it was so tangible around him.

It wasn’t as if Castiel was blind or oblivious, especially when, after class was over, said specimen of ultra-manhood would just _stare_ at him while surrounded with his bevy of people. And Castiel noted that Dean never agreed to anything from those who crowded around him. But even when addressing his adoring fans, those green eyes stayed on Castiel, glowing at him from a distance.

It was genuinely unnerving.

So, for the rest of the month of August, he endured the green gaze, how it would sweep over him from top to bottom, making him feel almost nude underneath it each and every week. Every class period, for almost three hours straight, his scrutiny would burn on Castiel’s skin, and, if it hadn’t been overkill and stifling hot, Castiel would have worn nothing but long sleeve shirts and possibly gloves.

For the month of September, he started to stare back, just to get rise from the man. He would lose track of time, staring into those eyes, and then there would be a small, uncomfortable cacophony of coughs to get their attention. They earned a reputation for ‘eyefucking’ in the middle of class, a rumor that Castiel refused to acknowledge. In the end, all it did was make Dean smile a small predatory smile that made Castiel uneasy, and, even more so, feel like a rabbit staring down a wolf or mountain lion.

But, again, contrarily, Dean never tried to get him alone; he never stood too closely. He always had his group of friends around him, taking part of his attention. He basically just hovered around Castiel, leaving the distinct impression he was interested.

Very interested.

The worst thing, perhaps, was that Castiel wasn’t immune to the man’s attractiveness. He just wasn’t used to feeling like he was on the losing end of something that might end with a Castiel-skin rug on someone’s floor. He wasn’t used to feeling, well, _hunted_.

It was October, however, when things started to really escalate.

The incoming mid-term research papers and exams loomed over everyone’s heads, and Castiel had opened his office to appointments for people to stop by and get help either studying or improving their papers. As easily as that, Dean was continuously orbiting around him like a moon.

Dean was incessantly following him to his office for ‘consultations’ on one of his papers (not actually for Behaviorism) or requesting clarification on an aspect of psychology.

It was an extreme upgrade in stalking.

Even worse, it was downright unsettling to have the large man in his small office. Dean’s shoulders alone were broad and intimidating. Not that Castiel was a small man; he was six-foot tall and wiry. But Dean was taller than he was, and just broad and all muscle. He constantly _leaned_ into Castiel’s space, and, every time, Castiel got a nose full of leather and pine scent. That scent would just override his sense of preservation and go straight to his groin. Too often, he found himself reeling backwards, avoiding Dean’s eyes as he did so. He would feel the heat in his face and the throb in his pants and want to die of embarrassment.

One day, out of desperation — having flailed backwards, only to have knocked over a stack of research and books — Castiel asked, “W-what cologne are you wearing?”

Dean, who had crouched down to help pick up all the papers that had been stuck inside the books, blinked and replied, “I don’t wear cologne.”

Castiel had cunningly choked on his own saliva and shoved the man out of the room.

To add insult to injury, he could tell Dean was sniffing him, moments when Dean was leaning over his shoulder to look at a correction or suggestion Castiel had written on his paper. The faint sound of wuffling, and the pleased hum would make Castiel stiffen his spine, and Dean would immediately back off, an inexplicably contented expression on his face. But that was when Castiel would get a whiff of warm leather and pine — with just a hint of honey — that would just go straight to his cock, like the finest aphrodisiac ever.

The game of run around came to a head by mid-October, with Castiel completely unnerved and worried about going to his Behavioral Psych class.

Although he had been in Rock Hill for several months, he had not made many friends and ended up spending time with a few of his colleagues. Out of the few professors and instructors in his department, he really only enjoyed the company of one or two. Not that it mattered; Castiel had the social gracefulness of a one-legged, lobotomized swan. He tended to scare people off with his rusty social skills, which was fine. Those who stayed around — despite his inability to do small talk — were the seeds of the social chaff, in his opinion.

On this particular Thursday, he had found Dr. Victor Henriksen in the office about to go to lunch and asked if he minded company.

“Not at all, man. It’s good to hear from you!” Henriksen had slapped him in a friendly manner on the back and suggested a nearby café.

Henriksen was a sensible man, who had moved to Rock Hill to start a practice, but found he enjoyed teaching a bit more. So he kept his practice very small, and kept himself open to helping the police whenever they needed advice.

As such, it was on the walk over that Castiel decided to air his complaints to his co-worker. After all, Henriksen was the lead in Abnormal and Criminal Psychology and he had been tenured for a year now. He might have some suggestions as to what Castiel could do?

The thing was, because Castiel was not very good at actual socialization, he couldn’t quite find the right timing to ask about it.

Meanwhile, Henriksen was bitching about his Intro to Psych class, because the freshmen were generally clueless and the advising department kept sticking them in Intro to Psych like they were supposed to teach the little shits how to be a university student. “I am not still in debt to my student loans to this day to teach freshmen how to take notes and study,” he ground out over coffee.

Cas grunted agreement (mostly because this was very true for him too), but he played with his turkey with Swiss cheese and sprouts on a croissant bun, crumbling the bread absently between nervous fingers.

Fortunately, Henriksen was not a psychologist for nothing. “Hey, you okay there, buddy? You look kind of worn down. Something up?”

Castiel made a noncommittal noise. The croissant suffered another blow of his fingers, the other tip of the crescent pulverized into fine bread crumbs.

Henriksen frowned with concern and leaned in a bit closer. “I know you don’t know a lot of folks here abouts. Did you want to talk about it?” He put his hand on Castiel’s forearm, rubbing gently, and asked, “Are you _okay_?”

Castiel smiled at him, surprisingly grateful for the touch, and took a sip of his coffee. “Do you have Dean Winchester in your classes?”

Henriksen blinked in surprise and nodded. “Yeah, he’s in my Abnormal Psych class. Hard worker, but difficult to pin.” He frowned. “Are you having problems with him?”

Surprised, Castiel actually had to think about it. “Well, not _problems_ , per se.” He shrugged. “He hasn’t touched me or been rude. He actually hasn’t done anything other than stare at me during class like he wants to eat me.”

Henriksen laughed, patting his arm where he was still touching it. “Eat you? Really? He doesn’t do that in my class. He has a bunch of groupies in there, but he tends to ignore them all. Occasionally, he asks me for advice on some work. He’s doing well. Keen interest in Psychology. It’s refreshing.”

Castiel cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, I thought as much. He’s just a bit intimidating, I guess. And that might just be me.”

Henriksen moved his patting to Castiel’s back, and then gripped his shoulder in a friendly, show-of-support way, shaking it slightly.

 “Yeah, I get you. But he’s harmless.” He smiled supportively and added, “If he gives you any problems, just tell me and I’ll talk to him about it.”

Henriksen then started telling Castiel about the rumors that had been going around about a giant wolf being seen in the woods nearby, and how there had been a couple of sheep missing from the local farmers. He was intrigued by how it at evaded all the hunters somehow, especially at the size it was said to be.

But Castiel hadn’t really been paying attention. His eyes had been caught by a pair of glowing eyes from outside the café. They were glaring at Henriksen for some reason, and looking resentful before Dean turned and walked away.

Dean missed class later that day.

Castiel hadn’t realized how much his life had been influenced by Dean’s presence until it wasn’t there. Class was somewhat less interesting; the students a bit more lifeless without him. It was enlightening.

He had just said goodbye to his students, and was packing up his things, when Dean walked in. He was wearing his usual leather jacket over a Motorhead t-shirt and a green-plaid flannel, with dark worn-in jeans and his usual boots, but what was different was his expression. Usually he looked indifferent to things around him, smirking at the world with a cocky attitude, while maintaining a distance.

Today, however, he looked a bit agitated, something that intensified as he approached.

Castiel opened his mouth to greet him and inquire as to why he had missed class, but his chance was aborted by Dean pushing into his personal space and sniffing him. And although Castiel had drawn back, he found himself trapped against the desk, Dean’s arms bracketing him in. He stilled as Dean drew a long breath along Castiel’s arm and paused above Castiel’s shoulder to lowly, but audibly growl. Castiel was sure he was imagining the sound of splintering wood behind him, where Dean was gripping the desk, and he swallowed hard as the smell of leather, pine, and charred lumber swirled into his nose.

Green eyes snapped up to stare into his and Dean growled, “That _man_ … What is he to you?”

Castiel blinked in confusion. _Man? What man…?_

“In the café!” Dean snapped, eyes glittering with more gold than usual.

“H—Henriksen?” Castiel stuttered out, his face just inches from the glaring man. “H—he’s just a colleague I have coffee with once in a while.”

Another growl trickled out of Dean’s mouth as he leaned in and scented along Castiel’s shirt collar, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “ _Mine_.”

Castiel felt himself flush from head to toe, beads of sweat pooling on his skin from nerves, but, maybe worst of all, was the actual _lust_ that was affecting him. This close, the leather and pine scents that clung to Dean’s skin, even with that tainted trace of charred lumber made his head swim just a bit. There was something under it, something beneath it that was feral that made his flesh hot and desire pool in his gut.

He wanted to laugh at the incredulousness of it. His ex-wife had called him ‘frigid’ and a ‘robot,’ yet here he was feeling like he was about to die in a whirlpool of unexpressed desire.

He felt the sweat trickle down behind his ear, and his breath hitched in his chest when a hot tongue flicked out and caught it, a happy hum with it. More heat buzzed through him, and he realized he was getting hard.

“You’re afraid, but aroused,” came the amused assessment. “Usually you just smell good. But today you smell like _that_ guy.”

Dean pulled back to stare into his eyes again, and that _something feral_ was suddenly very visible, something that lurked in the woods and ate little girls in red hoods. Dean stared as if he were looking for something, and then that smirk slid off his very pink lips.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmured, one hand cupping Castiel’s jaw as he ran a thumb over his cheek. “I won’t hurt you.”

Castiel’s breath caught again, as Dean leaned in and brushed his lips against his own, the tiny tingle reminding him that it had been ages since he’d last had sex. Dean moved back to look into Castiel’s face, and Castiel felt like Dean was looking into his soul and seeing the small desires he had hidden there. But Dean’s own eyes were blown with lust, the smell of him stronger somehow, and Castiel sucked in a shocked breath to realize Dean was also _incredibly turned on_ by the odd events. The hard line of Dean’s body was nearly locked against his, and, if Castiel concentrated, he could feel the rigid line of Dean’s erection through his jeans, rutting softly against him.

“ _Mine_.”

Castiel heard it more clearly this time, felt it whispered over his own lips as Dean leaned in and captured them, the pressure hot and sending signals to the rest of him that it was pleasurable.

He wanted more.

Dean chuckled lowly at the tiny, unwilling moan that Castiel had released against his mouth, and licked at the seam of Castiel’s lips, asking entrance, which Castiel easily gave.

Surprise again struck Castiel as deeply as the sharp tug of lust, that kissing a man was not bad, nor that different from kissing a woman. Dean tasted like honey, and, partly driven by curiosity, mostly driven by need, he delved deeper into that hot mouth. He wrapped his arms around Dean, slipping fingers underneath the layers of clothing to the smooth skin of his waist, running his hands over the hard planes of Dean’s back, touching the knobs of his spine as Dean bent himself over Castiel.

Castiel felt fingers pull out his tucked in shirt, and a callused palm sliding along his back, under the fabric and heather-blue sweater vest. Those nimble fingers slid down into the gape left in his slacks to cup his ass, thumb skimming just over the cleft. Dean’s other hand had somehow gripped the back of Castiel’s head, fingers wrapped in the curls and tugging lightly, scratching faintly. He was somewhat aware that Dean had picked him up and pushed him on top of the desk, knocking his satchel onto the ground, but it was hard to _care_ about that, when by their own volition, his legs had wrapped themselves around the man’s waist and pulled him closer.

He had never really been interested in homosexual sex, so he had no real basis for what was happening. But his body seemed to know when Dean _ground_ against him, only to resume rutting fiercely, the hard length in his jeans, its fabric making a soft, yet erotic noise against Castiel’s khaki slacks as they moved. Castiel was shocked that he not only _liked_ it, he wanted _more_. He sobbed out against Dean’s mouth, and Dean smiled, pleased by his reaction, and nuzzled his way into the collar of Castiel’s shirt. 

“Mine,” he growled into the column of Castiel’s throat. “My Cas. Never give you to Henriksen.”

Castiel gasped as Dean sucked a mark into his shoulder, and said, “I am not dating Henriksen.”

Dean leaned up to look into his eyes again, and he said sharply, “He doesn’t touch you. No one else touches you.” He dipped in as he pulled Castiel into a punishing kiss that left him both breathless and boneless. “ _Mine_ ,” Dean snarled, his teeth lightly biting Castiel’s bottom lip.

Something in Castiel wanted to agree and reply, “Yes! Yours!”

But he wasn’t. He belonged to no one.

Even so, he was left feeling bereft as Dean ground against him once more, sucking at his earlobe, and then dropping a kiss on his parted lips before pulling away quickly. Then he was gone.

* * *

For a full two weeks, things went on as so: Castiel would find himself alone, and, out of nowhere, Dean would appear, get him to the edge of coming, and then abandon him without a word.

If he had been a beast, Castiel would have said Dean was marking him.

But the situation caused Castiel to also think about his own sexuality in a way he had not considered since he had been a teenage boy in Massachusetts.

He wasn’t gay. At least, he had never considered himself gay. He had only dated women, and he was fine with that. He’d only ever had sex with women. After all, men rarely, if ever, turned his head. He had even been married for a few years, although things with Daphne had gone sour and then dull, and finally just became living in the same house until she found someone new.

He had left without a problem; he had been no happier than she was in that marriage at the end.

But now Dean had stormed onto his stage, all fire and lust, all hands and mouths. Castel had never been so aroused in his life, and especially when Dean roughly whispered, “Cas,” as he nibbled on Castiel’s throat.

He had never really had a nickname until that moment, because his best friends calling him ‘Cassie’ was more annoying than endearing.

Still, the desire that pooled inside him was completely new.

Although he was academically aware of Kinsey’s scale — that sexuality was fluid — it wasn’t a topic he had personally investigated much. Also, from student papers and listening in on their conversations, Castiel realized there had been… changes… to the vernacular regarding sexual orientation and gender.

Confused by his own sudden turn about in sexuality, he started looking things up and found out way too much about asexuality, demisexuals, polyandry, and aromantics. But he found a term that sounded right: heteroflexible. He was attracted to some men, albeit he wasn’t sure if it was sexually. He wouldn’t deny that fact, but Dean was the first one to push past the attraction phase and warp into full-blown lust.

Of course, he wasn’t sure if he could even call it a ‘relationship,’ since it mostly consisted of Dean pinning him in a surprise attack and then them making out like oversexed teens.

The third week into the ridiculous, so-called ‘relationship,’ he finally stopped Dean before he pinned him to the desk after class and said, “I want to go on a date.”

Incredulous green eyes blinked at him. “A _date_?”

Castiel stuck his chin up stubbornly. “A date.” He said it firmly and Dean scowled at him.

“I don’t do _dates_ ,” he replied finally, pushing willfully into Castiel’s personal space.

Castiel pushed him off. “No! I want a date. Even if it’s just coffee,” he said firmly.

More blinking ensued as Dean tried to determine how serious Castiel was. He seemed to get how important it was from Castiel’s expression, and he blew out a sigh and nodded. “Fine. A date. Are you free later tonight?”

Castiel smiled. “I can be.”

Dean ran a hand through his short brown hair and nodded, rolling his eyes. “Yeah… Okay, then, I’ll pick you up at seven. Is that okay?”

Castiel nodded, and said, “Let me give you my address…”

Dean leaned in, grinding against him just to make Castiel moan, and swallowed the sound with his mouth. “No worries. I got it,” he said, rubbing himself against Castiel once more before dropping a shorter kiss on his lips and walking away, leaving Castiel dazed.

* * *

The date went as might be expected.

Surprisingly, Dean showed up on the doorstep of Castiel’s condo in his usual gear, although he had to wonder if Dean was wearing cologne because there was a spiciness — maybe cloves and ginger — to his usual scent that made him tingle.

Then Dean introduced his “Baby,” a cherry 1967 black Impala, preening when Castiel was very impressed with her. The smile Dean threw at him was blinding, and he had to press down on the front of his black jeans with the heel of his hand. This was not the moment to get excited.

But, despite having done that from behind the safety of the passenger’s side door, when he slid into the car, Dean still somehow knew he was turned on, and pulled Castiel into a long, filthy kiss that made Castiel want to pull him back to his house and have his way with Dean.

Instead, _Dean_ pulled away, grinning widely and eyes undeniably glowing, a casual hand wiping away the spit on his face. Castiel found himself doing the same, and internally tried to think if he had ever felt that way with any woman or, hell, his ex-wife, and had to admit he hadn’t.

They ended up a small hole-in-the-wall bar called “Loops” that was pretty busy for a Thursday night.

There were a few upright high tables with tall stools in the open space, but the far wall was nothing but a bank of booths. Across of that, there was an aging dartboard and three pool tables, two of them with players. Old license plates and bric-a-brac decorated the walls as if trying to lend it some charm. With the dark wood paneling and the concrete floor, Castiel would have to say they failed.

Castiel, being relatively new to the area and not much of a drinker, had never been there before. Dean strolled in like he owned the place, making his way up to the bar and motioning the very tall barkeep for a beer. The huge, shaggy-headed man rolled his eyes at Dean and reached under the bar to get a bottle of El Sol. Dean looked towards Castiel, motioning with the bottle, and Castiel shrugged and asked for a Manhattan, getting an amused look from Dean.

Dean asked for two menus, ignoring the bartender’s surprised expression, and tugged Castiel’s hand as they made for the corner booth.

Castiel settled in uneasily, and Dean grinned at him, eyes gleaming. “The burgers here are excellent. They even have venison, if you’re into that.”

Castiel quirked a small smile. “You’re into that, right?”

Dean took a sip of his beer, and popped the bottle off his lips, deliberately licking at the droplets of beer on them. “I am. But I’m into a lot of stuff.”

The bartender walked up with Castiel’s Manhattan and also handed him a menu.

Dean scowled. “Where the hell’s my menu, bitch?”

Castiel’s eyebrows flew up at the insult, until the bartender made a face and said, “Why bother? You order the same thing every single time, jerk.”

Dean grinned up at him, and slapped him hard on the shoulder, making the bartender wince. “Cas, let me introduce you to my little brother, Sammy. Sammy, this is Cas!”

Sammy grimaced and held out his hand. “Please, just call me Sam.”

Castiel reached out and found Sam’s huge hand warm and reassuring. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Sam seemed to run his eyes over Castiel, assessing him. His eyes didn’t have the same gleam as Dean, although now they he knew they were brothers, he could see the similarities in the shape of their faces, and the small cleft of their chins. But, if Dean was all arrogance and swagger, Sam was emotive and sensitive, his eyes, nose, and mouth telegraphing every emotion he felt.

Sam smiled tightly and gestured at the menu. “See anything you like?”

Castiel started and quickly looked over the menu.  “What’s good?” He asked, looking to Dean.

Dean grinned. “I always get the ‘To Hell With It’ burger. It’s a venison burger with everything on it including jalapeno poppers and a Sriracha sauce. Makes it spicy.”

“He also gets it practically raw, so I don’t recommend it,” Sam added, making a face that oozed disapproval. Dean flipped him the bird, while Castiel scanned the menu.

Castiel nodded. “I’ll just get this All-American burger with Swiss and mushrooms.”

“And you want it cooked…?”

Castiel handed back the menu and smiled. “Medium-rare please.”

Sam grinned back. “You got it!”

He wander away to put in the order, and Dean grinned at Castiel. “So, Cas, it’s nice to see you out of your stuffy prof wear and in something comfortable.”

Castiel looked down at his outfit: a nice sky-blue sweater with a v-neck over his black jeans didn’t seem that different in his opinion. “I thought you might prefer me in something less formal,” he said.

A lecherous expression slid over Dean’s face. “I’d prefer to see you even less professional gear,” he leered.

Castiel frowned slightly and tilted his head. “But it’s rather cold for swimsuits.”

Dean stared at him a moment, as if making sure he was serious, and then started laughing hard, clutching his stomach. “Oh my god, did you really just say that?”

Castiel smiled shyly, trying to force down the blush that was threatening to surge up his face.  “But seriously, Dean,” he asked suddenly, sitting forward and knitting his fingers together to peer at Dean. “Why are you chasing me? I’m much older than you, and I’m certainly not all that interesting.”

Dean eyed him for a moment and then smiled, leaning in closer into a similar position as Castiel. His face just inches away, he said, “You misunderstand something here, Cas. I’m not chasing you. I’ve caught you. I don’t care about your age or anything else.” The green eyes smoldered and he said lowly, “You’re mine. I can smell it. Everything about you is perfect, from the top of your careless bed head to the tips of your toes. You’ve always been mine, and just never known it.”

A shiver ran down Castiel’s back at the assurance in Dean’s voice; he didn’t know what to do with the emotions churning in his belly. He ducked his eyes and grabbed his drink, swallowing it down faster than he should have. He choked a bit, coughing violently as Sam returned carrying their orders.

Sam gave him a concerned look, and glared at Dean like it was his fault. “Are you okay there, Cas? If Dean’s being an asshole…”

Castiel managed to wave off Sam’s concern, coughing loudly, while Dean nibbled his fries.  “No,” he managed through the pain. “I’m fine. But I need another.” He rattled the ice in the glass, and Sam scowled but nodded.

“Alright. Be right back.”

Castiel managed to control his coughs, and, feeling embarrassed, picked at his burger. It looked delicious, as they hadn’t been chintzy with the mushrooms or cheese. They ate quietly for a bit, until Sam returned with Castiel’s drink, and suddenly said, “So… get this. The full moon’s in a couple of days.”

Castiel looked up, wondering what that meant, especially since Dean was glaring at his younger brother.

Sam smiled apologetically, and spread out his giant hands as if asking for forgiveness. “Do you think the giant wolf they’ve spotted around town is going to show up?”

Castiel blanked. “Wolf?” He looked to Dean. “Are there… wolves? In South Carolina?”

Dean beamed at him, laughing lightly and shaking his head, while Sam’s eyes went wide and he asked, “You haven’t heard all the rumors about missing sheep and a giant wolf?”

Castiel shrugged and chewed on a fry. “I don’t really know anyone in town. And I don’t recall it being brought up.”

Sam scoffed. “But it’s been all over the news!”

Castiel nodded. “I don’t have a TV yet. Lost that in the divorce and it didn’t seem to matter. And I only listen to NPR.”

Sam turned incredulous eyes on Dean, who shrugged back. “He’s different.”

 “I’ll say,” Sam said, looking over to the bar to make sure no one was waiting. He told Castiel, “Well, there’s supposedly a big, bad wolf running around Rock Hill. I recommend you stay indoors the next few nights, lest it eat you up.”

“I don’t go out regularly anyway.” He pointed at Dean. “And if I go out, I’ll take Dean along with me.”

For some reason, this made Sam shake his head and chuckle. “Right. Dean.”

Sam slapped Dean on the shoulder as he went back to the bar.

Dean quirked a smile at Castiel, and then there was more silence for a bit as they ate their burgers. Castiel eyed Dean’s burger, and it was true: it was practically purple in the middle, it was so raw.

Even if he thought it was gross, Dean was obviously enjoying it, so he decided not to say anything.

When they were both done with their meals, Dean started up a conversation, asking about things in Castiel’s past. He summed up the past thirty-five years of his life pretty succinctly, and shrugged off his divorce as just something that happened.

Dean seemed very interested in that, though, and he seemed to get a bit agitated when Castiel admitted to having been married for ten years, with no children. Not that he hadn’t wanted children, but that Daphne wouldn’t hear of it, and Castiel had never bothered to push the issue. He hadn’t wanted to talk about how his marriage sort of evaporated out from under him, but Dean coaxed some of that out. At the end, however, Dean had looked upset, and he looked like he wanted to kiss Castiel again. Castiel wondered if it was his whole, ‘Mine’ thing, and just ignored it as just an odd ‘Dean’ quirk.

He asked about Dean’s past, and Dean smoothed over twenty-eight years of his life with a few highlights, his basically raising Sam, and his interest in psychology.

And, admittedly, Castiel was fascinated as Dean talked about his interests.

“My undergraduate was in Mechanical Engineering, but I minored in Psych. I liked it a lot, y’know? What makes people tick? So when I was offered a couple of jobs, I had to think hard. And I decided that I wasn’t about to leave Sammy here on his own without support, ‘specially after Jess…”

He paused and looked to his brother, not quite able to hide his sadness and concern from Castiel’s practiced eyes. “Well, let’s just say, a couple of years for a Master’s while Sammy was still getting his feet under him seemed like a good idea.”

A few more drinks, and it was already 11pm. Castiel looked at the time, surprised by how late it was and how many drinks he’d had. Dean was telling him about his personal interest in the supernatural, and they had been half-heartedly arguing about psychiatric disorders versus the possibility of there being actual beings like werewolves and vampires in the world.

“It’s a nice fantasy to imagine there are such things,” Castiel scoffed, swirling the remains of his fifth Manhattan. “But science has proven they are just various disorders. There’s no such thing as a curse.”

Dean got a speculative look on his face and he took a sip of his beer. He squinted at Castiel, and swallowed, pointing at Castiel with the bottle in his hand. “Okay, doc. Let me tell you a story.”

He finished off his beer (his sixth, but he seemed unaffected by it), and leaned forward. “Once upon a time—”

“Really, Dean?”

Dean frowned and shook his head. “Shut up. Just listen to me.” He stretched out his neck and leaned in again. “Once upon a time, there was a family who was just normal as hell. A beautiful mom, a handsome dad, and two kids. And one day, there’s a man come into town, a bad man. And this bad man fell for the mom and began to stalk her, threatening her family.

“The mom refuses to give in, and, it turns out, the bad man is a witch of sorts. A powerful, black witch who doesn’t take no for an answer ever.

“One night, he sneaks into the house and he curses the mom’s children, and, as he completes the spell, the mom walks in. She screams, and the husband runs to rescue her, but it was too late. The curse was laid, and his wife was half-mad with grief because, under the full moon that night, both her babies had turned into tiny wolves.”

Dean shifted uneasily in his seat, his eyes on the condensation on the new beer his brother had automatically dropped off. He continued slowly. “They thought all hope was lost until morning came and the boys were both normal again. The baby had no memory of the transformation, but the little boy remembered the pain of changing. And that’s when the parents realized the boys had been cursed to be werewolves.”

Dean paused again, took a long pull, and set the bottle down carefully. “They searched and searched for a cure, but, aside from a silver bullet to the heart, nothing was going to help those boys. The dad had even chased down the guy who did it, but he had just laughed at the dad’s desperation, and the dad killed him, hoping that might undo the curse.”

Dean rolled the beer bottle along the table, between his fingers, eyes on the wet ring it had left. “And just as they thought all hope was lost, and that they were going to have to lock the boys up forever, a psychic landed on their doorstep. And that psychic told them that true love could save the boys. Could cure them of the curse.”

“That seems rather convenient,” Castiel muttered. His vision was just a bit fuzzy, and he thought he saw something sorrowful pass over Dean’s face because he collected himself.

“Well, I’m sure it was years later, and the boys had already been living with that curse for a decade or so.”

Castiel smiled. “But it must have given them hope.”

Dean smiled back. “You’d think, but, y’know… true love is hard to find.”

“Not-so-true love is hard to find,” Castiel snorted rather drunkenly.

Dean snorted, took another pull of his beer, gasping out, “True that.”

* * *

Castiel didn’t remember the ride home. He remembered that he had been much more inebriated than Dean, and that Dean had led him to his car. He _vaguely_ remembered Dean digging in his pocket, shuddering at the warmth of Dean’s hand through the thin pocket fabric, and opening his condo door. He had some _slight_ memory of pulling Dean down into the bed with him and cuddling him like an octopus so he couldn’t get away.

Which explained why, when he awoke the next morning to his phone alarm, he was wrapped around six-foot plus of pure beefcake and had nearly no memory of how he had gotten there.

He blinked blearily up at the sleeping man, his freckles more noticeable as he rested, his lashes dark against his fair skin. He looked younger than his twenty-eight years, the peaceful rest smoothing out the lines next to his eyes and mouth.

Castiel cuddled in a moment more, surprised his head wasn’t killing him. Maybe because he had stuck to one alcohol? Well, whatever it was, he felt okay.

He pulled himself out of Dean’s arms, which made the man grumble, and went to brush the lint out of his mouth. He was surprised that, although his sweater had been removed, his undershirt and pants had remained on. He was also surprised he was mildly disappointed by that.

When he returned to the bedroom, Dean was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “You disappeared on me,” he rumbled.

Castiel stretched his arms over his head, watching Dean hone in on the strip of flesh he revealed when his shirt rode up. “I just went to the toilet,” he said, smiling perceptively.

Dean reached out, and Castiel went knowingly, crawling across the foot of his full-sized bed, glad he had chosen a deep green duvet cover and sheets, when Dean glowed when framed by it. Dean pulled him up, and started nuzzling him, nibbling between his shoulder and throat, licking it boldly and making Castiel shudder. A hot, callused hand found its way into Castiel’s shirt and he was quickly stripped of it, making Dean gasp and kiss the revealed flesh reverently.

Castiel reached down and wound his fingers in the light brown hair, as Dean removed his jeans, leaving Castiel naked.

“Dean, it’s not fair,” Castiel murmured, yanking off the band t-shirt impatiently and making Dean also shuck his jeans. Despite his deep chuckles, Dean grinned and let Castiel trace his body with his hands. He knew he looked good, and Castiel wanted to smack him for the arrogance, but, in reality, he was impressed.

Dean’s body was heavily muscled and broad, his shoulders wide, and his skin was surprisingly tanned for his complexion. Freckles were scattered across his chest and there was a tattoo shaped like a sun, with several odd marks like sigils inside of it that seemed to glow blackly on his left pectoral. When Castiel went to touch it, Dean caught his hand, smiled sadly, and shook his head. “It’s better if you don’t touch that,” he murmured.

Castiel nodded, and Dean let him go.

Castiel dragged his fingers lightly over Dean’s chest, fingers lingering over the dusky nipples and drawing a hiss from Dean.  Then he admitted, “Dean, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never been with a man.”

Dean’s hot hands smoothed their way up Castiel’s thighs, his thumbs hooking onto the ridges of Castiel’s hips, and he murmured, “I got you, Cas. I won’t let you fall.”

When he looked down into the man’s eyes, Castiel found himself unable to hold back any longer, pressing himself against the heat that was Dean Winchester. He kissed those lips hungrily, his body moving against Dean’s, reveling in the hot, callused palms that touched him all over.

Dean flipped them over, and Castiel gasped: the larger man loomed over him, his green eyes boring into him, and then, having looked his fill, Dean darting down to nibble at Castiel’s lips.

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” he breathed, grinding his erection against Castiel’s. Castiel’s own breath hitched as the damp feel of Dean’s cock moved against him, aligning next to it, and rubbing together. He tried to speak, but all that came from his mouth were low sobs of pleasure.

His legs were tangled with Dean’s, both of them breathing hard, kisses wet and hard, desperate after all the time spent making out and dry humping. Castiel clutched at Dean’s back, mentally enthralled with the feel of muscle in his shoulders shifting, as they writhed against each other. And when Castiel came, it was with a shout, his fingers gripping Dean’s shoulder, his head thrown back, even as Dean came too, creating a hot, sticky mess between them, his head resting on Castiel’s shoulder, dropping small kisses onto the sweaty skin there.

They laid there, breathing hard, Castiel not entirely sure what had happened because sex had never been like that for him before. In the back of his mind, he began to reevaluate what he thought gay sex might be like, but perhaps it was only with this man that it felt that revitalizing.

Dean pushed himself to the side, grabbing Castiel’s undershirt from the floor, and wiping their bellies with it. He tossed it back down and pulled Castiel in closer, kissing his face and running fingers through his sweaty hair. Even if he felt gross and sweaty, he felt treasured by Dean’s small touches, and, before he knew it, he had fallen asleep again.

* * *

Castiel woke up to the smell of something cooking and the sound of someone on the phone. He looked at the time, and groaned, having missed his classes. Oh well, he doubted his undergraduates cared; they had probably employed the fifteen-minute rule and taken off.

He stretched and put on some sleep pants, walking out of his bedroom to hear Dean say with exasperation, “You think I don’t know that, Sammy? What…? No, I tried… hey, it sounds like a fucking bedtime story! How do you break something like that to someone… OH _yeah_ , like that worked out so great for you.”

When Castiel got to the kitchen doorway, although Dean’s back was to the door, he saw Dean stiffen suddenly and sniff the air, and then say something into the phone, the only things of which he got were the words ‘go,’ ‘mate,’ and ‘later.’

Castiel looked over at what Dean was making, and they looked like BLTs. They smelled delicious. “Where did you get the ingredients for that?”

Dean leaned in and dropped a kiss on Castiel’s forehead. Surprised, Castiel slapped a hand to the spot, and wondered if, as the older of the two, maybe he was supposed to be the one doing things like that?

Dean grinned and handed him a put together sandwich with some potato chips. “I dropped by the grocery store. I can’t believe you basically live on frozen meals.”

“It’s already portioned out and I don’t have to do much preparation,” Castiel said defensively.

Dean laughed. “You’re missing out on life there, doc. A million flavors and scents in the world, and you choose chemicals. It’s a shame.”

Castiel muttered, “Wasting time on cooking when I generally burn all my food is a shame. I can barely toast bread.”

Dean shook his head and smiled softly as Cas devoured the sandwich with moans of pleasure.

It turned out Dean had also missed his class, and so, following lunch, they went for round two.

And three. And, as it turned out, four.

* * *

Dean left later that evening, saying that Sam was expecting him; he had never spent more than a night out without checking in with his baby brother.

Blissed out, Castiel kissed him on the way out, and then crawled back into his bed, his bed that smelled of them both, the faint scent of pine and leather burying into Castiel’s body. His foray into gay sex had been more gratifying than any other sex he had had in his life. He didn’t know why he hadn’t considered trying it sooner. He didn’t know how he was going to go back to plain ole heterosexual sex.

Then again, he reasoned, it might be primarily Dean.

Castiel rolled around a bit more, clutching his pillow to his nose, enjoying every pleasurable ache and pain in his body.

He was grateful tomorrow was Saturday.

* * *

Castiel had spent his Saturday cleaning up his condo and making sure he had enough food for the week in his fridge. He had washed the sheets and duvet cover, taking the duvet to get cleaned, and basically graded and puttered around the house.

He considered going to Loops for a drink and maybe see if Dean was there, but he _really_ needed to grade at least half the stack of papers on his desk. He brewed himself a strong pot of coffee, and got to it.

On Sunday, he called Dean, only to get his voicemail. Frowning, he left a message to call back, and tackled the other half of his papers. Three hours later, still no Dean and his motivation to read half-assed papers on Freud’s theories was wearing thin. He didn’t know why students were so fascinated with Freud when there were so many other interesting theorists. Maybe it was the cocaine? Maybe it was the penis envy? He didn’t know. But every semester he received like fifteen out of thirty papers on him from the undergrads who also took the History of Psych class. His graduate students at least chose other theorists. He even occasionally got something out of the ordinary, which pleased him.

He moved onto his grad-level Behaviorism class, the pile much smaller at ten total, and braced himself, putting the ones he knew were going to be sketchy at the top to bully through and the ones he knew he’d enjoy at the bottom. It was the only way to grade that many papers: like Pandora’s Box, he kept hope at the bottom.

Their papers were, of course, nowhere as bad as the undergraduates’ half-assed, ‘I wrote this at 3am and you’re lucky I managed that’ offerings. At least they were properly cited and they generally knew how to use a comma. If he was lucky, semi-colons were used properly and were a thing.

He hummed through the first five, most of them taking pretty average studies and evaluating their use of Behavioral theory, in about two hours. They were averaging fifteen to twenty pages each, and that just took some time, especially when he had to write comments and then sit back and evaluate them.

He was almost surprised when he finally arrived at the bottom of the stack and there was Dean’s paper. He was stunned by the topic: Behavioral Applications in Mob Psychology as Associated with Pack Minds. The opening summary was interesting and he smiled as he realized Dean was using Kierkegaard and Trotter in his opening paragraph, and kept smiling as he talked about Black Fridays vaguely as examples of Mob Mentality and then launched into a lengthier discussion about rock concerts and deaths, such as the queuing deaths at The Who concert of 1979.

Henriksen was absolutely right — not that Castiel had thought him wrong — but Dean was an excellent writer. He had chosen a topic that interested him, and so it interested the reader, and, really, it was proof he really understood the dynamics of Behaviorism beyond the shallow interests of most of the class. Castiel wondered if he were teaching the next Skinner.

Smiling, he got through the twenty-page paper, and gave Dean the A.

It wasn’t favoritism. It was just Dean’s hard work.

* * *

By Sunday evening, there was still no word from Dean.

Sighing heavily and wondering if he had made a mistake, Castiel decided to stop by his office and pick up some of the books he had forgotten to bring home on Thursday in his rush to get home and change.

He mentally ticked off his list of readings and assignments for the week, as he rummaged through his desk, groaned at the amount of departmental mail in his inbox, and shoved things he could do at home into his backpack. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone, and it was easier to ride his bike with a backpack than a satchel.

He found some essays he had shoved under a book so as not even look at them (they were terrible) and printed out the five late papers that had ended up in his email. That was extremely annoying.

Having done all that, he sat down and looked over his schedule for the week, realized he was behind two lectures for his Intro classes. Overall, it looked like he was going to have to pack everything in and cut time in some places for the next couple of weeks to catch up.

Sighing, he stood and stretched out his neck and back, looking at the time on his computer. It was already nine at night, and the street lights had already been on for a while now.

He turned off the computer, stacked some things he needed to get to first thing in the morning, pulled on his coat and beanie, and, hefting his bag, locked his door on the way out.

He locked up the main office, and strolled out in to the cold South Carolina air. The earth’s warmth, collected from the warm afternoon, had cooled with sunset, and the calm air and cooling earth had created a still fog that sat just above the surface. Castiel breathed in deep, unwilling to admit that the fog was unnerving him. It curled between trees and bushes, coiled around streetlamps, and seemed almost _waiting_ for him to make a move.

Castiel knew this was just radiation fog, and that it was a scientific phenomenon that occurred in early winter. He knew this. He still hurried to where he had parked his bike.

If he had been keeping score of his luck for the night, he should have figured this would have happened. He had figured, being rather far from the university library, parking his bike at the rack would be safe. There was almost no one on this side of campus, especially on a Sunday and at this time of night.

Someone had stolen his bike.

His very expensive u-lock looked lonely, hanging off the rack with what looked like a Bic pen sticking out of it as if mocking him. When he examined it, the lock wasn’t even broken; the lock had just been picked.

He blew out a frustrated sigh, checked his phone, and called the one person he knew: Dean.

No answer.

He left a message and, hefting his backpack, he started his thirty minute walk home.

As he walked, he tried not to be creeped out by how the fog seemed to curl around him damply. He figured there were few people out because of the rumors of the big wolf and because the fog was dense and annoying to drive through.

He was making good time down the hill and across campus, when he heard a low growl. Startled, he looked up and around. He wasn’t alone; a couple of people were walking in the other direction. He wasn’t in the middle of a field, but on campus, between buildings. He squinted, trying to spot any dogs, but he couldn’t see anything for the fog. Hunching his shoulders, he decided his mind was playing tricks on him and he was just going to walk a bit faster.

As he walked on, the number of streetlights started to dwindle, which added to his nervousness. He looked around and noted he was in a neighborhood, at least. When he was driving or bicycling, he never paid attention. And he had never noticed just how many damn trees there were. Why had he never noticed? With the fog, it just added to the creepy feeling out of a horror movie, and he was ill at ease as he tried to rush back home.

He finally hit a spot where there was one lone streetlamp illuminating the street, although the full moon that was finally directly above him was doing its best too.

He was starting to sweat, despite the cold air, from the weight of his backpack and his practically jogging home. He swiped at his jaw, and stopped suddenly when he heard it again: a low rumbling growl that reverberated through his bones. It was much closer than it had been, and he shuddered at the thought.

When it turned into a very, _very_ close by howl, he ran.

He was hightailing it up the street, when he heard the heavy breath behind him. Terrified and certain this was how he was going to die, he turned to peek, only to wish he hadn’t.

There was a wolf.

There was a fucking huge _wolf_ behind him, watching him from beneath the one streetlight on this street. It was easily the size of a pony and it had glowing eyes.

Castiel blanked out on the more salient information he had on wolves in his brain, but one thing remained crystal clear: they were _not_ supposed to be the size of small horse, with cinnamon fur that bristled up their backs.

He was hauling ass up the street when he heard a different, yet familiar, sort of growl, and he looked behind him to find Dean’s Impala roaring up, headlights highlighting the wolf and making Castiel scream, “ _Dean!!”_

The wolf had also looked behind, and, snarling at the car, veered off into the fog and trees.

Castiel stopped, bent over and propping himself up on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He was trembling violently and sweating profusely, so he yanked off his beanie, and swiped at his face with it. He half-walked, half-stumbled to the Impala, and, as the driver’s side window opened, he said, “Dean…”

To his surprise, Sam peered out him with a concerned expression, saying, “Get in! Hurry before he gets back!”

A howl came out of the fog again, way too close for comfort, and Castiel clumsily ran to the other side of the car and scrabbled to open the door and slide in. “What the hell is that thing?”

Even with all his experience and training, the simultaneously perplexed and upset expression on Sam’s face was hard to read. “It’s a wolf,” he said finally, putting the car in gear. “It’s a giant wolf.”

“I can _see_ it’s a fucking wolf,” Castiel sniped, irritation and fear making him swear. “But that was no ordinary wolf! The largest wolf is the Gray Wolf, and they only get to like… maybe three-feet tall at the shoulders! That thing was like closer to four and a half feet!”

Sam’s lips compressed as he tried to focus forward, driving slowly. The Impala wasn’t made for foggy nights, and Castiel was sure Sam didn’t know the area, so he was probably being extra careful.

“Look, Cas, I know you called Dean several times this weekend, but he’s been kind of… out of it.”

Castiel frowned. “It’s… it’s not because of… us?” He wasn’t quite sure how to ask the question, so he hoped Sam got the gist.

Sam snorted. “It’s mostly because of you, but it’s not your fault.”

Sam looked over at Castiel, and, perhaps it was the fog, the full moon, or the night he had endured, but he could have sworn that Sam’s eyes gleamed in the night like Dean’s for a moment. But it was neither as powerful as Dean’s nor as intimidating, and Castiel cringed as Sam’s large hands tightened their grips on the steering wheel hard enough to squeak.

“Dean said he told you a story? A story about a curse?”

Castiel blinked in surprise. “Yes, but what does that have to do with a giant wolf that has been apparently following me?”

Sam blew out a sigh as he turned right onto Castiel’s main street. “Look, he said he told you a story about two boys and a curse, and that you didn’t believe him.”

“I only believe what I see with my eyes.”

Sam turned those swirling glowing eyes on him, hard and desperate. “You have to believe him, Cas. It’s important.”

He sharply pulled the car over, pulled open his jacket, and pushed down the collar of his shirt. “Look, here! It’s the mark! The mark of the curse!”

On Sam’s chest, Castiel could see a gray tattoo that was shaped like a sun, with several curious marks inside of it. It looked like Dean’s but much lighter and there was a long, ragged, pink and shiny scar over it, like a claw mark.

“Look, two years ago, I found my true love, my true mate. She was gorgeous and she loved me. She broke the curse on me.”

Pain flickered over Sam’s face, and he swallowed hard. “Then, an apprentice of that black witch found us and killed her in front of me, using a weird knife that looked like an ass’s jaw. That bitch, Meg, had cut me pretty deeply, when Dean caught up to us. He… he was transformed and he just snapped off her head in his rage.”

Sam’s eyes fluttered close, his brow furrowed with deep suffering. “Look, Dean has been looking for you since he was fourteen. He’s… stayed with me because he thinks that he should, but he’s spent his whole life just looking for the love of his life.”

Sam’s expression grew sharp as his eyes flicked open and he grabbed Castiel’s arm. “You have to see him as more than that wolf. That’s _Dean_. He’s more than the monster you’re afraid of. When you see him, welcome him and you’ll see I’m right.”

Castiel wondered if Sam were nuts, and slowly said, “Okay… and… if it’s just some sort of… mutant wolf… or if… let’s say I’m not his so-called ‘true love’— then what?”

Sam sat back and hit his head lightly against the window, swallowing hard and regret in every line of his face. “Cas… if you’re not his mate, I’m not going to be an asshole and tell you not to worry. If you’re _not_ his mate, he’s likely to kill you, relationship or not. He’s been controlling himself by a margin all these months, I’m not going to lie. When you’re in that state, you crave violence and blood.”

Castiel felt the doubt and the disbelief on his own face. Sam saw it and leaned forward, intent. “But… if you _are_ … Cas… if you _are_ his true love… you can break this curse for good.” Emotions flickered over Sam’s face: anxiety, sorrow, anguish, hope, and fear. “Please, Cas. You’ve got to try.”

Castiel huffed. “You’re asking me to go out there and face down a giant wolf that you’re trying to tell me is actually Dean.” He shook his head. “Sam, are you serious? There’s no such thing as curses.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t do more than tell you there is, Cas.” He pointed outside the car, and, just beyond them, there stood the giant wolf, watching them closely, his green-gold eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “But look at him, and tell me you can’t see Dean?”

The wolf stared and took a few steps forward into the headlights of the Impala, and shook itself, the cinnamon fur shifting and stirring the fog around him. In the fog, he looked even larger than when Castiel got a peek at him before. He sat and sniffed the air, those glowing eyes sad and lonely, and, as moments passed and Castiel refused to exit the car, the wolf’s ears flicked back and a low, lonely howl echoed through the night.

“You have to confront him in that state,” Sam said, as the howl caused the glass in the Impala to vibrate slightly. “You have to know it’s him, no matter what he looks like, no matter what he’s done.”

Dr. Castiel King considered himself a rational man. Rationality told him that Sam was nuts. That there was not really a giant wolf with Dean’s glowing green eyes staring sadly at him. That he was not going to take a step out of the safety of the car and face down the creature. There were no such things as witches, curses, or werewolves in the rational world he lived in.

So it must have been something else — something about the wolf and Sam’s determined expression — that forced him to open that door and step out of the car. The wolf sat and waited, although he was whining rather piteously in his throat and the big shaggy head shaking and lowering itself as Castiel slowly approached. His hands clenched and unclenched as he walked on, his lizard brain trying to convince him to turn tail and run, while his mouth opened and asked, softly, “Dean? Is that you?”

A paw the size of a dinner plate reached up and out imploringly, tapping the ground, and the wolf huffed, stirring the fog around himself.

“Dean… Sam says that you love me… is that true?”

Perhaps it would have been comical in other circumstances, but the wolf’s eyes grew round before he turned his head slightly, snorting.

But, Castiel smiled, recognizing the behavior. He reached out his hand, and said, “Dean… I’m waiting for you. I… I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life and I just never knew it.”

The wolf turned back to look at him, those green-gold eyes on Castiel’s hand, and, slowly, as if afraid, the wolf crouched down so his belly was touching the ground and crept towards him, like a dog afraid of being scolded. He crawled forward, nestled in the fog, and highlighted by the Impala’s headlights.

Calmly, Castiel kept his hand out, palm partially hidden by the fog, as the wolf crept forward. The wolf looked at him, his ears back, and as he slowly approached, the fur on his body started to fall away, leaving freckled, smooth skin.

He continued to creep forward, and, under Castiel’s wide eyes, his bones began to crack and change, the snout pushing in and leaving a straight nose and curved cheekbones. The black-etched mouth smoothed and shrank into pink, full lips from which pained gasps escaped through white, human teeth.  Even as Castiel watched, _Dean_ collapsed to his knees in front of him, a large human hand clasping the one Castiel had extended, and Castiel whispered, “I’ve got you this time.”

Those glowing green eyes peered into his and Dean rasped, “Cas…”

Castiel smiled, unable to believe what he had just witnessed, but knowing it didn’t matter. He leaned over and kissed Dean briefly, murmuring, “I’ve got you. Always.”

At that, Dean keened out a cry, his neck taut with pain, and his back arching as every muscle in his body locked up. Castiel reached for him, only to step back as the black mark on his chest burned with bright eldritch black fire for a moment, before dissipating with a hiss and leaving a light gray mark, not unlike Sam’s.

Castiel fell to his knees too, and gathered Dean in close as he started to collapse, not realizing he was repeating, under his breath, _“Dean! Dean!”_

Dimly, Castiel heard the car door open and slam shut behind him, and Sam cry out, “Dean!”

But his attention was on the curled, naked man in his arms. The fog tried to crawl over them, but it was pushed away by Sam’s coming to their sides, and the swirl of a blanket as he put it over his big brother’s still form.

Castiel’s fingers were trembling as he ran them through Dean’s sweaty, short hair. He had just seen a wolf change into a man, and probably a man he was deeply in love with.

A _wolf_ had changed into a man.

A _tattoo_ had turned into black fire.

It felt like a bit much for a man of science, and he swallowed down his initial urge to run away from the circumstances because… Dean was at the center of it.

His shivering, whimpering lover was clutching Castiel’s thighs, with only a dusty, blue blanket covering him.  Castiel looked up at Sam, and said, “Help me get him in the car. We’ll take him to my place.”

* * *

Castiel and Sam managed to carry Dean into Castiel’s living room. He was glad that he had just decided to splurge and get a huge chocolate-colored leather couch, because there was enough room on the monster to lay Dean out on and leave room for Sam to sit on the small end. There was a huge and heavy square coffee table where he had a stack of books and an errant coffee mug.

He directed Sam to get Dean comfortable, while he dug into his sparse linen closet. He had the couple of cheaper comforters that his best friends Balthazar and Inias had gotten him as “Happy Divorce” gifts.  

He grabbed the comforters, snagged the ragged quilt he had gotten from his mom for graduation ages ago, and gave one of the comforters to Sam.

“I’m guessing you’re spending the night,” he said, as he turned to tuck Dean in with the quilt and then the other comforter.

Sam stared at the comforter for a moment and looked over at Dean. He sighed and shook his shaggy head and headed to the entrance way.

“You know what? I think I’m going home.”

Castiel turned completely around, surprised.

“I would have thought…” he started.

Sam smiled a bit sadly and said, “Honestly, Cas, he’s my brother, but he’s in love with you.” He quirked a smile and eyed the lump of sleeping man. “Even if the stubborn ass never straight up says it.”

Gray-green eyes glowed a bit as he gripped the front door’s knob, and he murmured, “I also think I need give you two your space. It’s going to be a different ballgame, now that he’s cured.”

He pulled the car keys from his pocket and rattled them in Castiel’s direction. “When Dean wakes up, he’ll give you my cell number, and I’ll stop by then.” He made a face, and muttered. “But if you guys are having sex or something, just wait. I don’t want to know.”

The blush that raced up Castiel’s face was undoubtedly telling, and Sam huffed out his amusement, slapping him on the shoulder with his huge hand. “See you later, Castiel.”

He opened the front door and, again, smiled affectionately, and said, “Take care of my brother, okay?”

“Of course, Sam.”

He left and moments later, Castiel heard the rumble of the Impala and then silence.

Castiel walked back into the living room, prepared to wait for Dean to awaken, when a muffled and gruff voice said, “Is the little bitch gone?”

Castiel couldn’t stop his smile at that, and he answered, “If you are referring to your little brother, yes. He has left.”

“Holy fuck, my head hurts,” Dean moaned from under the comforter and quilt.

Castiel took that as his cue to fetch some water and a couple of pain killers. He walked back to the living room to find Dean blearily looking around, the bedding tucked around him like he was buried up to his neck in it. With his mussed hair and groggy expression, he was genuinely adorable, and Castiel took a seat on the coffee table to admire him.

“How are you doing there, Dean?” He asked, watching Dean manage to pull out an arm, pop the pills and drink the full glass of water.

“I feel like a truck hit me,” he replied honestly, handing back the glass, and rubbing his hand over his face and through his hair. “What happened?”

Castiel summed up the evening, and when he got to the part where the tattoo had basically blown up, Dean’s eyes got wide and he leaped out of his cocoon of bedding and ran into the bathroom butt naked.

Castiel got up a bit more leisurely, curious as to what Dean was up to, when he heard, “HOLY SHIT! It **_worked!_** ”

He was still making his cautious way up the hallway to the bathroom when the still very naked Dean ran out, picked him up by the waist and twirled him, whooping the whole time.

“I’m cured,” he cried gleefully, putting Castiel down just to kiss him thoroughly. He broke off with a gasp, leaving Castiel dazed, and then kissed his forehead with a triumphant, “I _knew_ you were amazing!”

Castiel felt the blood rush to his face as Dean obliviously ran around the condo hollering his joy. “Dean, please! Come on, you’ve been through a lot, and you said you were in pain! Please!”

Dean swooped by and grabbed Castiel by the waist, half-carrying him, half-pulling him onto the large couch. He nuzzled Castiel, oblivious of his own nudity, and said, “I have been waiting twenty-four years to not be afraid of the moon.”

He ignored Castiel’s gasps and nipped at his collar. “Twenty-four years of brutal training by our father to not attack humans, forcing Sam and I to eat sheep and deer as pups.” Dean tugged at Castiel’s shirt until he relented and allowed Dean to remove it.

“Ten of those years were spent terrified we were going to be put down rather than allowed to live thanks to our cursed blood.”

He attacked Castiel’s pants next, and Castiel just let him remove them. When he was also naked, Dean pulled him close and just held him, running his hands over him like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“And then fourteen more hopeless years, even after watching Sammy get cured, until I walked into that classroom and smelled you.” He licked Castiel behind his neck, lapping at his skin and nosing at the short curls there, his hand clutching at Castiel’s abdomen with dull nails and preventing him from writhing out of his grasp. “Perfect, perfect you.”

Dean pulled the bedding around them, making a new cocoon with Castiel at the center, and just kissed him and told him how wonderful he was until they both fell asleep in the warmth of each other’s arms.

* * *

Dean changed.

Castiel didn’t think it was his doing, precisely, but more the endless weight of imminent violence that had hung over his head was gone and he was finally able to be himself.

He smiled more, in a genuine fashion. He interacted with his fellow students more, and even joined an academic fraternity.

Their relationship wasn’t a secret, although, following that semester, Dean no longer took classes from Castiel. They didn’t want to be accused of favoritism, even though Dean studied Behaviorism on his own time and submitted papers on his own power.

It was gratifying to Castiel to watch him do it, to watch the bravado of old slip away into actual confidence in his abilities.

And if Dean’s days were dedicated to research and interacting with other grad students, and working his graduate assistantship like a good little academic slave, his nights belonged to Castiel for at least a couple of hours for dinner and possibly more, if their schedule permitted.

Saturdays were sacred for them, wrapped around each other, rediscovering their bodies together. Castiel loved how Dean always wrote a symphonies across his body: here _forte_ where Castiel liked a firm hand; there _piano_ because Castiel was ticklish; Dean dedicated time to pulling a perfect _cantata_  out of Castiel each time he laid him down with love, swallowing the songs of worship that rushed out of Castiel every time.

And Castiel wrapped his love around Dean like invisible armor. He held him tightly on the nights the moon hung full over their condo, the years of transformations bringing a toll of nightmares and near misses with human victims. When the night terrors of blood and meat between his teeth made Dean sob into their pillows, his body damp with fear and disgust, Castiel wrapped himself around him, dropped kisses over his shivering body, and reminded Dean he was loved.

It was far from perfect, but neither were Grimm’s fairy tales of old.

But it didn’t matter; it was their own fairy tale ending.

And Castiel was aiming for Happily Ever After.

 

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Rock Hill, SC: I spent a year of my undergraduate life at Winthrop, but that was ages ago, and I noted when I was researching, that the town has changed a lot. So, this is part memory and part me making it up.
> 
> u-lock: I found out, to my horror, that using an empty Bic pen, you can pop the lock on a u-lock. I was seriously shocked.


End file.
